A roller-coaster of joy and rage

Photo: Rajib Dhar/TBS

Tens of thousands marched towards Gonobhaban that day, strangers becoming instant comrades in celebration. Hands clasped mine, voices erupting with that one, electric line: "Sheikh Hasina has fled!" I lost count of how many times I heard it. One bearded man in a panjabi clutched a single rose, laughing through tears. "I've never felt such joy – my heart is full," he said, trembling like a man who'd just tasted freedom for the first time.

The walk from Shahbagh to Gonobhaban – 5.6 kilometres – felt endless and fleeting all at once. Waves of humanity spilled across the streets, as though Dhaka itself had exhaled its 15-year breath. You could see it in their eyes: joy, rage, disbelief, all at war with each other.

Near the gates, a female student sat slumped on the footpath, muttering, "Hasina fled," over and over. Her voice quivered, not in relief, but in anger – fury that the autocrat had escaped justice.

And then came the trophies. A teenage boy clutching a chicken, grinning like he'd won the lottery. A man parading a massive fish from Hasina's kitchen as if it were the World Cup. People swarmed around him, snapping photos, laughing, cheering. Time stood still in those absurd, beautiful moments.

Elsewhere, tears flowed. Grown men sobbed openly, women prostrated themselves on the pavement, whispering prayers of gratitude. It was as if an invisible chain had snapped.

I couldn't get through the gates. But maybe I didn't need to. Freedom wasn't behind those walls – it was out here, in the roar of the crowd, in the laughter, in the tears.

That day, Dhaka was drunk on liberation. And for one fleeting, glorious night, the wind of change blew through every soul.